Chapter 27: Dilemma
Enzo’s POV
I’ve been lying on my back for what feels like a lifetime, the ticking sound of the clock on the wall count out the seconds with its lazy, uneven ticks. Outside, the afternoon light has slanted into gold, then bruised itself purple, and still Alaric hasn’t come back. Every creak in the hallway startles me half upright; every motorcycle engine three blocks away drags hope through my aching ribs then lets it go.
He said he was going to "take care of" the man who hurt me. At the time those words had sounded protective, almost gentle, but hours later they ring metallic in my skull. "Take care of" can mean flowers and soup; it can also mean blood and concrete. I was beginning to worry more than I should have to. I digged under my pillow for my phone, I wanted to call him or text him but then in clicked on me, I don’t have his phone number.
Think, Enzo. How do you reach a man who lives in shadows? How do you stop him once he’s slipped beneath the surface to hunt?
My chest tightens. Worry is useless static buzzing in my veins, but it’s either move or drown in it. I swing my legs over the mattress, joints protesting, and press bare feet to the cold terrazzo floor. The apartment is pin-drop silent l no humming fridge, no neighbor’s radio just the hush that comes after violence, when everything waits to see if the nightmare is really over.
"I need air," I mutter, voice rusty from disuse.
The balcony door sticks a little old paint, swollen wood then groans open. Cool night wind slides over my face like a balm. The view isn’t postcard-worthy: a modest tangle of rooftops, flickering streetlamps, neon signs already losing letters. But the breeze smells of fried plantains, diesel, and faint sea salt, and for a moment that’s enough. I brace my elbows on the railing, hug myself against the chill, and watch traffic trudge along the main avenue. Horns, laughter, snatches of music drift upward life happening at full volume while mine’s been paused.
My fingertips graze the bruises blotched across my neck. They’re sore, swollen ridges of the terror I had to go through. Instantly the memory unfurls, vivid and intrusive: the man’s fingers tightening, death clogging his every breath, his hissed threat in my ear, the way he warned me to stay away from Alaric. I swallow hard, force the scene back into its box. A single shiver slips down my spine.
"Who was he, anyway? Alaric’s lover? A jealous ex?" The thought escapes before I can leash it, drifting into the night like a question for the stars.